


The Golden Rules

by LJC



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, Stick makes Odin Borson look like father of the year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:38:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LJC/pseuds/LJC
Summary: Matt had been training with Stick for almost three months, when school started back up.





	The Golden Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Rubynye, who gave me the "Do you think I’m scared of a woman?" prompt.

"The golden rule is that there are no golden rules."  
—George Bernard Shaw

Matt had been training with Stick for almost three months, when school started back up.

The school had ordered special books for him, after his accident. Even though he'd missed a bunch of school, he'd got caught up and finished fourth grade with the rest of his class. People still asked him all the time—about his dad, about his accident. But he didn't act out or cry or get angry. He just waited until people stopped asking. And after a while they always did.

Now he was in fifth grade. He had a new uniform because of his summer growth spurt, and a new backpack with school supplies from the communal supply for the Catechism classes held in the hall beneath the church. 

The walk to the school was a lot shorter from St Agnes than his old building, where he and his dad had lived in a cramped apartment where Matt couldn't see the glow in the dark stickers on his ceiling anymore. He'd practised the route a couple times, just to make sure he knew where all the uneven steps were, all the cracks in the pavement. Anything that could trip him up. The crossing guard lady was extra nice to him, and told him how well he was doing every time he made it from one side of the road to the other, like it was a miracle.

Matt didn't like being on the playground before first bell. He had to pretend he didn't know where people were, and couldn't use the swings or climb on the monkeybars. Nobody asked him to play four-square, even though he had kicked ass at it before the accident. But he'd have had to say no anyway—because he had to hide his abilities.

Stick showed up after breakfast. When Matt came around the corner from the dining hall, backpack slung over one shoulder and cane sweeping from left to right and back again in front of him, there was Stick, sitting on the wooden bench inside the main door, leaning up against the wall.

"C'mon, Matty. Time to go to work."

He smelled like cigarettes, stale sweat, incense, and the oil he used when he was sharpening his knives on his whetstone. Matt always wondered where he actually _lived_ when he wasn't teaching Matt how to use his expanded senses, how to fight. He also wondered if he ever washed the field jacket he wore buttoned up to his chin, even when it was sticky hot outside. Stick was _really_ old, but he didn't smell old the way Fr Healy or Sr Antonia did. He just smelled like Stick.

"School started on Monday. I have to go to school," Matt said, pushing the heavy wood door of the orphanage open, and feeling the sun on his face. 

Stick had been gone for over a week this time. He never told Matt where he was going, or when he was coming back. Just that it had something to do with what he called 'the never-ending war'.

"I'm your school." Stick fell in beside him, and grabbed Matt's upper arm. Not tight enough to bruise, but tight enough that Matt knew he meant business. They stopped only half a block from St Agnes, and Matt could already hear the screams and shouts of the kids on the school playground blocks away, waiting for the doors to open.

"No I mean _school_ school. I can't ditch—I have Sr Claireen for homeroom and English. She'll get mad."

"So?" Stick shrugged. "Do you think I'm scared of a woman?"

Matt gaped. "She's a _nun_."

"Hate to break it to you, kid, but nuns are still women."

"You don't understand. It's _Sr Claireen_. She's a million years old, and mean. Meaner than a snake."

"Really? Sounds like she and I'd get along just fine." 

"Stick, you can't say stuff like that about the sisters. They're the brides of Christ."

"Last time I checked, their bridegroom hasn't been around in a while. They'd probably appreciate the company."

" _Gross_." Matt couldn't suppress a full-body shudder. "Besides, she's not just mean—she carries around a ruler, and hits kids with it sometimes. She won't let Carlos write with his left hand, even though he's left-handed. She whacks him on the knuckles with a ruler. Not the plastic kind either, the wooden one with the metal edge."

"Lucky Carlos. Being ambidextrous can come in real useful. Especially in a fight."

"Then Maria said that Sister Claireen wasn't allowed to use corporal punishment because they made it illegal and she could go to jail, even though it's not a public school and the bishop is actually in charge of our school. But instead of stopping, Sr Claireen gave her a white slip. And if you get three white slips, they call your folks and you also get detention. And if you get five white slips, then you get suspended. And you can't come back for a week. They don't even let you get your assignments and do make-up work at home!"

"Sounds like a friggin' vacation to me."

Stick started forwards again, then stopped when he realised Matt wasn't following him.

"I ain't got all day."

But Matt remained rooted to the spot, shaking his head. "I can't miss school. I can't ditch, and I can't get suspended. I can't."

"Why not? What're gonna learn in that school that's more important than what I got to teach you?"

"But all you teach me is fighting, and how to listen, and meditate and stuff. I'm supposed to have Language Arts, Pre-Algebra, History, Social Studies, Physical Science, Religion—"

"You live in a convent. How much more religion do they think you need?"

"It's a Catholic school."

"So?"

"So at a Catholic school you have religion class every day. If you go to public school, then you have to go to CCD class on Sunday before Mass. If you don't, you can't have your Confirmation."

"Confirmation of what?"

"You know, Confirmation. When you're a baby, you get Baptised, then in first grade you have your First Communion, then when you're 12 the bishop comes and you do your Confirmation."

"Still ain't telling me what's so important, kid."

"Getting baptised when you're a baby is like—that's how you start off Catholic. Then you do your First Communion, but you're still a little kid and you do it just _because_. Because everybody tells you to. Some of the girls in my class only liked it because they got to wear pretty dresses. But with Confirmation, it's like the Catholic version of a bar mitzvah. You only do it when you're old enough to know what being Catholic really means, and so you are choosing it. As a grown-up, not a kid anymore. Then you're a real Catholic."

"Huh. Interesting concept. How old are you?"

"I'm gonna be eleven on my next birthday."

"Not so sure eleven is all that grown up. You're still acting like a little baby, scared some old lady in a fancy outfit is gonna whack you with a ruler. Or is that cos you're only ten?"

"She hits _hard_. And I'm not scared of her—it wouldn't be me she'd be mad at anyway. It's you."

"Why's that?"

"Stick, you're a _grown-up_ , and you're not supposed to make me miss school. Especially without calling the office first, or writing a note. If you get too many unexcused absences, they can do all kinds of stuff like make you do summer school, or even keep you back a year. Everybody knows that. Didn't you ever go to school?"

"Course I did," he said gruffly. "For a while anyway. Things were different in my day—cops'd catch you if you played hooky, for one thing. Hell, that's how I ended up in juvy the first time. And lemme tell ya, they sure as hell didn't give you a gentle little kiss on the knuckles with a ruler. Nowadays cops don't give a shit. Kid skips school, and it's the parents who get the surprise visits from the social workers. It's the kids who end up in foster care. Nobody's responsible for their own actions, it's their parents' fault. That how you end up with assholes who think they can get away with any shit they want. Boo hoo, I had a shitty childhood, nothing's my fault, look, I have _a note_."

Matt was almost shaking, and he wasn't sure if it was anger or fear at the contempt in Stick's voice. He took an involuntary step back when he felt Stick's shadow on his face, blocking out the sun.

"A doctor's note or a permission slip ain't gonna do _shit_ in the real world, Matty. There's no such thing as a get out of jail free card. And when the war comes, pre-Algebra ain't gonna be what saves us. And the monsters are gonna be a hell of a lot scarier than a shrivelled up old lady who still thinks being left-handed is the mark of the devil. Now c'mon, we got real work to do."

He grabbed Matt's shoulder again, and tried to propel him forward. It _hurt_. But Matt was used to Stick's lessons hurting. He'd spent all summer having to wear long sleeves, so the sisters wouldn't notice the bruises.

Matt slithered out from under Stick's grasp, and put more distance between them. "No."

"What'd you say to me?"

"I said _no_." Matt tried to sound strong and sure, but there was a little quaver in his voice. "I'm not gonna break the rules."

"The only rule that matters is to do unto the other guy before he can do unto you."

"That's not funny."

"I ain't laughing. And in a minute, you won't be, either."

Matt squared his shoulders and stood as still and tall as he could, trying to picture himself like an old oak tree, with roots that stretched deep into the soil, so deep that even the strongest winds couldn't knock it down. He tried to grab his fear and his rage, and push the deep down feelings down, so he wouldn't cry like a baby in front of everybody on the street.

"Stick, I'm going to go to school," Matt said, and this time his voice was strong and clear. 

He knew Stick was angry. His heartbeat hadn't changed, and neither had his breathing. His stance was still relaxed—loose, almost slouching. But Matt could feel the anger coming off him in waves. But he stood his ground. Because Murdocks never quit.

He remembered how sometimes, in a fight, his dad would get real quiet. And his face would be serious, and his eyes wouldn't be like his dad's eyes at all. They'd be dark and flat, and then the other guy would start backing away, because he knew what was coming next.

Matt's eyes were hidden behind dark glasses. And he didn't have Jack Murdock's height or weight. But he stood his ground, hands hanging loose at his sides, his cane resting against his shoulder, tip digging into the weeds coming up through a crack in the pavement.

"They don't have the right kind of computer for me yet, so I have study hall instead of Computer Literacy," Matt said, slow and careful. "And my last two periods are Music, and Gym, which so far nobody's been able to figure out what to do with me. At gym, they made me sit on the sidelines, so nobody would step on me. It _sucked_. But can probably get permission for Mrs Clancy who plays accompany for the boys' choir at the church to teach me piano and have it count as school credit."

Matt took a deep breath, in through his nose, and out through his mouth.

"So _if_ the principal and my home room teacher and the sisters at St Agnes say you have permission to take me out of school at the end of fifth period, _then_ I'll go with you."

"Really? How _generous_ of you." Stick's voice was thick with venom, and it took every ounce of willpower Matt could summon not to run.

But Murdocks didn't run. 

"I have to be back at St Agnes in time for dinner at 6:30," Matt continued, chin up and shoulders back, "and I need time to do my homework after dinner. So that's the deal. You get the teachers and administration and nuns to all agree, then pick me up at the main gate at one o'clock every day, while school's going."

"Who do you think you are, giving _me_ orders?"

"Just some dumb blind kid that you conned a bunch of nuns out of a _lot_ of money, to train to fight while they thought you were some kinda Special Ed teacher."

"How do you know I'm not gonna take it out of your hide?"

"I don't. But it doesn't matter. I'm still not gonna go with you."

"Jesus, Matty. When you gonna get it? Those rules—they're for _them_. Not _us_."

"That's not true. The rules apply the same to _everybody_. They have to. Or else nothing's fair."

"Who told you life was fair?"

"Nobody did. But it's supposed to be. The strong are supposed to protect the weak, and grown-ups are supposed to do what's right for kids. And people who are lucky like us are supposed to help out people who aren't." 

"Feeling lucky right now?"

Murdocks didn't quit, and they didn't run. Not from a fight, and not from a vow. And maybe it wasn't the same as making his Confirmation, but he'd told his dad he'd stay in school. He'd _promised_.

"I _never_ missed a day of school, before my accident. _Never_. My dad made me do all my homework every single night, and he was always on me to get straight A's. He told me I hadda work hard in school, and never ever cut class. Be better than him. Make something of myself. And just cos he's—" he couldn't say dead; the word still stuck in his throat, "—gone doesn't mean I'm gonna break a promise."

"You're soft, kid. And that'll get you killed when the doors open. Soft, sentimental, and a colossal waste of time. Yours _and_ mine," Stick said sourly, like Matt was the biggest disappoint ever. Like he wished he hadn't bothered spending all those weeks training him. 

Matt wanted to shuffle his feet. Fidget. And his eyes burned—not as bad as when that stuff got in them, but like he was going to cry like a little kid. Not a big kid, starting junior high. The other kids in the recess yard were probably already grabbing book bags off the walkway next to the swings, lining up in front of the big heavy scarred wood double doors. 

He was going to be late. He was _never_ late. Stick was _making him late_.

"You're not my dad, You're not my legal guardian. You're not even really my tutor. Not like Sister Antonia thought you were when she gave you that cheque. So, unless you're gonna kidnap me—"

"Maybe I _should_. Just throw you over my shoulder, and get the hell out of New York. That's what I should do."

"Then I'll fight you," Matt said, cheeks flaming hot. "Every single day. I'll—I'll run away, and you'll never see me again. And you'll have to find some other blind kid to fight in your secret war."

He didn't have a watch, but Matt knew exactly what time it was, from the sun on his face, the rumble of the express train packed with commuters jammed up against each other like crayons in a box as it pulled away from the 34th St station, and the scream and rattle of rusting metal shutters being pushed up as Mr Nelson opened his hardware store, two blocks over and one block down.

He heard the bell. It sounded just like the fire alarm bell at St Agnes, but it only rang once, for exactly three and a half seconds. Loud enough for every kid in the yard and still on the sidewalk to push each other in their rush to get inside. There were only ten minutes from first bell to homeroom. Barely enough time to hang your jacket up in your locker, and grab the books you needed for the first two periods.

Definitely not enough time for Matt to cover the four blocks between St Agnes and the school attached to his parish church. Not without giving himself away.

"You got a pair on you, that's for damn sure. Dumb as a bag of rocks, but stubborn as a mule."

"If I don't go right now, I'm gonna miss homeroom, and they'll mark me absent if I'm not there when they take attendance. And I can't run, or else people are gonna _notice_. I gotta walk normal and use my cane. So I'm leaving now."

"You think school's gonna make you smart? Huh?" Stick called after him. "That you're making the right decision?"

Matt ignored him, and kept on walking. Mrs Carmichael, the school secretary, scolded him as she held the door open, but he made it to an empty desk in the back of his homeroom just as his name was called.

Matt didn't see Stick again for days. The old man hadn't contacted Sr Antonia. Wasn't lurking in the portry, or on the bench outside the church. Matt listened all the time for him—all the ways he knew how. All the ways he'd been taught. 

He didn't even know where to find him, to apologise for what he'd said. What he'd done. 

He'd tried following Stick once. Matt had always figured he was either staying at the YMCA, the shelter at St Paul's, or one of the hotels at 56th and 8th that rented rooms by the week as well as by the hour. He might even be squatting someplace—there were shuttered hotels and falling down tenements with absent landlords all over the Kitchen, rotting from the inside out with water damage. 

But Matt had lost him less than three blocks from the orphanage. And not just because Stick was taller, his long strides eating up more ground. It was like the old man just _vanished_. His scent, his heartbeat, the distinctive tapping of his cane, the sound of his familiar tread—Matt lost every trace of him. Like he could fly. Or had gone up in smoke.

He tried again, twice, and got a _little_ closer to solving the mystery each time. But Stick always _knew_ , the same way he was training Matt to know. To pay attention. And after three months, he was good. Most of the time, when Stick told him to tail somebody, he never ever lost them—even when they were blocks and blocks ahead of him. But Stick was better. Stick would always be better.

The worst part was that he wasn't sure if he _was_ sorry. He didn't think he should be. But he definitely knew he was lonely. Stick had given him a glimpse into a whole new world where he could be someone powerful. Someone who could actually make a difference. Use his gifts to help people. 

Matt cried sometimes, late at night, in his single room away from the other boys on his floor. He turned his face into the musty-smelling pillow, so no-one could hear him. He washed his face is ice-cold water that tasted like metal and chlorine from the taps in the communal bathroom at the end of the hall in the morning. His glasses hid the redness and puffiness from just about everybody, though he could feel Sr Grace watching him during dinner sometimes. She never talked to him, though. Just watched from the long table at the front of the hall where all the nuns ate.

Then the following Monday, there was an announcement over the PA in the middle of homeroom, calling him to the office. The other kids jeered and catcalled, until Sr Claireen slammed her ruler down on the top of her desk, telling them to settle down sharply, or she'd have them all in detention after school, washing blackboards and cleaning erasers.

(Tommy Riordan, who sat across from Matt at lunch because none of the other kids wanted him at their table, told him the chalkboards in all their classrooms weren't actually black. They were green. But Sr Claireen called them blackboards anyway. Matt wondered if she was colour-blind. It didn't make him feel sorry for her or like her or anything, though. She was still mean as a cornered alley cat.)

Principal Brennan's office wasn't large. Just room for a desk, a filing cabinet, and two chairs. The guidance counsellor was there, and Sr Grace from St Agnes. Matt was surprised; he'd figured they'd send Sr Antonia.

Principal Brennan was a lot younger than the sisters at St Agnes. She didn't wear a habit, or even a wimple. Just a small crucifix on a chain around her neck, and a Sacred Heart of Jesus pin on the lapel of her jacket. Her hair was short, and she had glasses that she kept taking off and putting back on.

Matt knew that his cane and his glasses made Sr Brennan feel uneasy. He figured that was actually good; she would rush through everything, so he could disappear into the crowds, become just another anonymous student.

She told him he had permission for his 'independent study' with his tutor, and that he would get a Phys Ed credit for the time. Then she gave him his new schedule, walked him through it, making sure he understood that he would still need to complete all of the core curriculum requirements of the state, even though he was working with tutors. They spoke long and seriously about his responsibilities, and what they expected from him. 

Matt missed first period, but that was English with Sr Claireen, so he was actually kinda relieved. He hated hearing the sound of Carlos whimpering. Or how he tried not to cry when she tried to tie his left hand to his desk, and tape his worksheets so they slanted the wrong way for him to write. 

He waited outside the classroom until the bell, and the door flew open and kids started pouring out—escaping her domain and breathing freely for the first time in fifty minutes. 

They parted like the red sea for Matt and his white cane, and he walked up to the desk in front of the blackboard and handed Sr Claireen the note signed by Sr Brennan, excusing his absence. 

Sr Claireen grumbled as she opened it, and Matt remained focused on the wooden ruler, currently sitting benignly on the corner of her desk. He could smell the copper tang of blood—old dried blood—along the sharp metal edge. It made him queasy.

"You may go, Mr Murdock," she said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand that she continually forgot he couldn't see. Or maybe she just didn't care.

Matt followed the last of the kids as they filed out of the classroom and headed toward their next class. Matt was glad it was Social Studies. They were studying Ancient Egypt, and the way Mrs Murphy taught it, Matt was able to picture everything clearly. Plus she brought in scale models and statues that she allowed him to touch.

Stick was waiting for him, on the other side of the wrought iron fence at the edge of the asphalt playground when he got out of Physical Science.

"Ever heard of _eskrima_?" he asked.

"Nope."

"Time to fix that," he said, sounding normal. Well, normal for Stick, anyway. Like nothing had happened, and everything was going to go on just like before.

"Sounds like something fancy you'd eat."

"It's not something you eat, dumbass. It's Filipino stick-fighting."

As they walked away from the empty schoolyard, Stick explained that the two foot long rattan sticks were called _yantok_ , and that they could do a hell of a lot of damage if a person knew what they were doing, and that they required precision and speed.

Matt lengthened his stride, to keep up, and mouthed the new unfamiliar words. _Eskrima. Yantok. Arnis._

That night he had a whole new set of bruises, but slept soundly for the first time in days.


End file.
